Beast
by Cryptic Nymph
Summary: Sherlock's pale, trembling fingers ghosted the aberration that ravaged his face, his hand briefly brushing the slick remnants of his tears. Post TGG. NO LONGER A ONESHOT. Sherlock/John.
1. Chapter 1

**For the prompt "Beast****".**

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><p>Sherlock's pale, trembling fingers ghosted the aberration that ravaged his face, his hand briefly brushing the slick remnants of his tears. Eleven centimetres of scarring ruptured his face, from his left eye to his chin. The pink indentation stuck out brashly from his pallid skin, the marks of the stitching still clearly visible.<p>

And yes, the doctor's had done their jobs properly. They'd done well in patching him up after the bomb exploded, because God knows, he had been in a state. Sherlock had jumped into the swimming pool just a little bit too late, the blast ripping into the left side of his face and leaving destruction behind. He'd broken the surface of the water and seen his own blood mingle with it, creating a myriad of different patterns and swirling shapes. It was beautiful, in a weird sort of a way.

They'd told him how lucky he was to have survived, which he knew was true. But still, the mottled, blotchy quality of his skin was too obvious to miss, his once fine features disfigured by the speckled flesh. Because he had known, of course, about the kind of looks he received, it was obvious to anyone, let alone the world's only consulting detective. He had made an impression, turned heads, broken hearts before now.

So he noticed when they stopped, of course, and were replaced with something all the more wounding. The gapes of curiosity and revulsion felt like a blow to the chest, knocking all the wind out of him. Sherlock's flair for the dramatic withered as time passed, no longer wanting to draw attention to himself. When he did, he was only greeted with stares, and the absence of stares, and the occasional insult.

All these years, he had wanted to differentiate himself from others, and now he had. He wasn't treated as a person by strangers anymore, he was pitied. _They_ pitied _him_. Oh, it would have been hilarious if it hadn't hurt so much. He wasn't sure whether to be angry, fearful or ashamed of himself, ashamed that he was very abnormal. He broke the mold, in the worst way imaginable. How could anyone stand to be in the same room as him, with someone with such a twisted and distorted appearance? Sherlock made himself uncomfortable, let alone anyone else.

So every time he saw Molly subconsciously recoil a little at his sight, the ache in his heart grew. And it grew, and it grew, and it grew, until he felt like one huge bruise; ugly, unnatural, unwanted. Damp shame clung to his grotesque form, weighing him down and stagnating. He felt like bits of old skin stitched together all wrong, hideously detestable flesh just waiting to burst apart at the seams.

When he and John were together in public, he noticed the stares more. They became so much more obvious when someone so… so _whole_ was near, who received admiration from everyone who met him. Whilst John attracted others, Sherlock repulsed them. Not just them, John too. He noticed it sometimes, when he snuck up on John unexpectedly, he was often unprepared to deal with what he saw. That tiny flinch of repugnance shuddered and ached more than a thousand insults.

Beauty is only skin deep, someone once told him. But who would bother to look beyond the surface value of some so utterly monstrous?


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey! I thought this was going to be a oneshot, but a couple of people wanted to see John's point of view. So here it is! WARNING: Sherlock/John, angst, swearing.**

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><p>Someone wise once said, "Scars can come in useful." John wouldn't have removed his scar even if he was able to, it was a helpful reminder of the cost of his efforts. One tiny mistake or slip up and your dead, right there, in the time it takes to breathe. The puckered red mark festered on his shoulder as a constant momento, a subtle admonition to check and recheck his actions, otherwise God knows what could happen.<p>

He used to think it was ugly. The florid dappled skin looked out of place against his tanned flesh, a tangled mass of ruined tissue. But he'd grown use to it, and don't tell, but he was rather fond of it. It was as much a part of him as his eyes or his hair. An imperfection, perhaps, but a sign of his own mortality. Before, he'd been a boy, running on arrogance and adrenaline. Now, he was a man.

Sherlock didn't deal with his injuries nearly as well as John did. Whilst John had escaped with simply a few cuts and bruises, the left side of Sherlock's face had been torn apart by the force of the explosion. First, it had simply the been his inability to work that had irritated him; but the hurtful remarks and repulsed looks of others had wounded him far more deeply than he had thought possible.

John, on occasion, flinched when he saw the crevice carved into Sherlock's face, and he would see the detective's face soften and his eyes lose their hard sheen. It took him a few weeks to realise why this happened- Sherlock thought he found him disgusting. Nothing could be further from the truth.

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><p>"So you see, Greg, the killer was the brother in law. He was the only one with access to the lake house."<p>

Greg smiled at Sherlock. "You're certain?"

"Definitely."

Greg picked up his phone and began to dial, eventually beginning to speak. "Hey, Toby? It's Greg- Sherlock's got some news on the Samson case for you."

Anderson frowned, as Lestrade continued his conversation with Gregson. "It's not _all_ his work."

Sherlock smiled. "Quite correct, for once, Anderson. John was the one who spotted the footprints leading to the second body."

John smiled bashfully, but Anderson frowned. "Big hooray, your little pet actually did something for once. It doesn't mean that my work is any less important."

Sherlock glared coldly at him. "You didn't notice it. That says something about your so called forensic skills. And John isn't my pet."

Anderson barked a cold laugh. "Oh please. That's the only reason you keep him around, you want someone who tells you how brilliant you are and then shags your brains out."

Sherlock flushed red. "We're not-"

"Not fucking? Sure. Though I'm surprised he wants to with that on your face."

The atmosphere cooled. Greg stopped talking midsentence, his mouth a little open. John stood up. "Say that again," he replied calmly.

"Say what?" Anderson sneered. "That your boyfriend's got a deformity? Because he has, John, even you realise that."

John took a step closer to him, and Sherlock stood up too. "Come on, John. Let's go home."

John gave Anderson one last look of contempt, before he turned to leave. They had reached the door, and were about to shut it behind them when there was a noise.

"Freak."

John stopped dead. "John," Sherlock said warningly.

John paid no attention to Sherlock's tone. He swivelled around fast and walked swiftly back over to Anderson, fiddling with his jumper. Anderson looked puzzled, until John forcefully yanked his collar down to reveal the skin of his shoulder. The scarlet scar that had blossomed on his chest was visible. Anderson swallowed hard.

"Do you know what this is?" John asked coldly. "This is what I got for fighting in Afghanistan. This scar, a psychosomatic limp and a shit load of bad memories. Does it _disgust _you?"

Anderson flinched at the penultimate word, seeing the anger in John's eyes. "That's different."

"How?" said John, his voice still steady but dangerously low. "Sherlock has saved people's lives, Anderson. He had solved crimes that you couldn't even comprehend, and he's greeted by people like _you_?"

Anderson attempted to speak, but John interrupted him. "How fucking _dare_ you speak to him in that way. How dare you insult him, my friend, the man I-" John stopped himself, biting his lip. Sherlock let out a strangled stutter.

"John?" Sherlock asked, a thousand unspoken questions in this single word.

"…Come on," John spat through gritted teeth. "Let's go home."


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi journey had passed in total silence. Neither could think of a word to say to the other- Sherlock, a man of extreme intellect, could not decipher the meaning behind John's words. He had defended him, of course, but it felt like more of a duty than anything else.

They entered the flat together, Sherlock hanging up his coat whilst John angrily climbed the stairs two at a time. By the time Sherlock reached the flat, John was in the kitchen with his back to him, making a cup of tea.

"John," Sherlock began.

"Want some tea?" John said flatly, messing with the cutlery drawer.

"Er, sure. But, John, I-"

"Milk?"

Sherlock frowned. He knew how he liked his tea, it seemed pointless to ask. "Fine. I'll get the mugs."

John, still with his back to him, shook his head. "I'll get them."

Sherlock grabbed the handle of the cupboard, just a little above John's head. "It's no trouble."

John turned and saw Sherlock next to him. In a moment that felt like years, he flinched.

Sherlock shrunk backwards, clutching a mug to his chest. It hurt more every time it happened, it was almost a physical wound now, getting deeper and deeper.

"Actually," he said quietly. "Forget the tea."

"Sherlock," John said, a little hoarsely. "I didn't-"

"What, John?" Sherlock retorted, suddenly angry. "You didn't mean to give away the fact I'm grotesque? Because believe me, I've heard worse, so go ahead."

"I don't think you're ugly, Sherlock!" John protested.

Sherlock laughed derisively. "Whatever. I'd prefer you didn't lie to me."

John took a step closer to him. "I'm not lying. And it wouldn't matter if you were ugly, Sherlock, I'd still-"

"Oh yeah, 'Beauty's only skin deep', right? Don't feed me that bullshit."

John slammed the kettle down onto the kitchen side, trapping Sherlock in the corner of the units with his arm. "You know what? That is bullshit. Because beauty isn't skin deep, it goes right to the core of your soul. People are beautiful on the inside, whatever you say."

Sherlock tried to speak, but found himself strangely gagged.

"And if you ever think that I find you disgusting, you'd be wrong." John clutched his left hand to the back of his head. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, it's the other way around. I wouldn't take that scar away if I could!"

He took a step closer still. "Before, Sherlock, you were so… impossible. Like you were made of marble, like you were sculpted by an artist. You were _perfection_."

"That's supposed to make me feel better, is it?" Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed. "What's interesting about perfection, Sherlock? There's nowhere to go from there, nothing to improve on. It made you unattainable Sherlock. And that, that mark on your face, that's an imperfection, yes, but it's one that's useful."

Sherlock laughed coldly. "How, exactly?"

John bit his lip. "Because it makes you human. It reminds me that you can be hurt, you can be damaged, and best of all, you can be _loved_. By me, Sherlock. And I shouldn't find that attractive, I really shouldn't, but the fact that you are human makes you so much more beautiful. I flinch because I'm surprised someone so brilliant wants to be around me."

Sherlock's mouth went dry. "Really?"

John looked down. "Yes." He scratched the back of his head, seemingly realising what he had just said. "You probably won't want me around anymore. I'll start looking for flats tom-"

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He grabbed the collar of John's jumper and pulled him closer, pressing his mouth gently against his. He was relieved to find John reciprocating, and suddenly there was nothing that could separate him from this glorious, foolish man.

Except, perhaps, his need for oxygen. Gasping, he eventually relinquished John from their embrace. Breathing was always so boring.

"Mr Holmes," John said in a low voice. "We simply _must_ do that more often."

Scars are marks of separation, they're the ghosts of past divisions. But occasionally, scars can bring people together. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt whole.

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><p><strong>So that's the end! The real end this time. This'll be the last thing I'll post for a week or so- I'm off to Berlin in about twenty minutes! Must dash!<strong>


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